


The world around us

by smallestbrown



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Dialogue, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:30:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallestbrown/pseuds/smallestbrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’ll figure something out,” Clarke choked out. Bellamy moved his head against the trunk of the tree and looked into the stars. Up towards the Ark.</p><p>“Can we figure it out later?” he sighed.</p><p>Canon divergence, during the final scenes of "Day Trip" (1x8), after they survive Dax's attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The world around us

The light was blue with the growing night. His freckles looked like silver, looked like stars, in the colors of the moon. The blood on his face – Dax’s blood, and his – was black and cold, crisscrossing spider webs over his cheeks and eyes.

The body cooled in front of them. Neither looked directly at it.

“We’ll figure something out,” Clarke choked out. Bellamy moved his head against the trunk of the tree and looked into the stars. Up towards the Ark.

“Can we figure it out later?” he sighed. 

“Whenever you’re ready.”

They sat in silence as they breathed in the air of their ancestors: the air that built the Coliseum and the Great Wall, the air that coursed through the Nile and the Niagara, the air that fought wars, that destroyed empires, that slayed kings. Hercules. Caesar. Cleopatra. History and legends, all anchored to the ground, intertwined, tethered to the atmosphere by some unseen earthly pulse. The 100 had built their camps in Rome, their beds in Athens, their homes in Babylon. Civilisations scavenging the ruins of civilisations.

They were doomed to destroy each other from the start. 

Clarke watched as the leaves above them caught in the wind. Her hands clenched at the dirt and she felt it digging beneath her nails. She felt Bellamy’s fingers next to hers.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she repeated in a whisper, almost as if to herself. 

Bellamy’s head turned towards her. The gold in her hair was pale and glistening, and her eyes caught all the light that filtered down through the canopy. He had the same expression she did: tired, and soft. His eyes flickered down to the space between them, and she thought she saw sadness as he curled his fingers around her hand. He didn’t look up when her thumb began to trace the lines on his knuckles. 

“The one who plants and the one who waters,” Clarke recited, “have one purpose. And they will each be rewarded according to their own labor.” 

“Corinthians,” he breathed. There was the hint of a laugh, and his voice was hoarse: “You know your Judaeo-Christian history.”

She hesitated before continuing. “In the Peloponnesian War, when the Syracusan forces sought them out to fight against Athens, it’s said that the Corinthians didn’t hesitate in going to their aid.” She let her hand turn inside his to hold it. “That they would fight for them, heart and soul.” 

He watched their hands for a moment, wound together in the dark. His breath was shallow and deep all at once. “If only we were so noble.” 

“I don’t think,” she started, but she caught his gaze and stopped. His eyes were so dark and focused; they seemed to take up all the space around them. Like embers in a dying flame. There was fire in the night, and something quiet in his softness. 

“I don’t think nobility has much to do with it.”

Bellamy swallowed and squeezed her hand. The space between them got smaller, and he dipped his head slightly, their gaze locked. “Maybe not.”

In that instant, he felt so much. He felt the pulse of the ground around them, the lives of his ancestors and those before them still. He felt the blood hardening on his face, the bark of the tree at his back, the cool of the wind against his cheeks, the scent of copper and dirt and fir. The warmth of Clarke’s hand. The way the word murderer was still caught in his throat; the way his heart was beating as if he’d just run a marathon. He felt her chair brush his chin, his cheek, and her lips brush his. 

He didn’t taste her, he barely opened his mouth. He just felt the warmth, the bliss, of pressing his lips against Clarke’s, in utter confidence and faith. Amid the tiredness and trauma, she promised forgiveness. Promised to figure it out, whenever he was ready. His hand moved to her shoulder, her face.

They pulled apart, and Clarke watched the way that his gaze flickered between her eyes. He looked calm and full, so unlike the rebel king that had rallied the delinquents, that had withheld rations for their bracelets. That had kicked Murphy’s crate as he had hung from a tree. He rubbed a scar on her cheek with his thumb. “Bellamy,” she whispered, but her eyes were on his lips – he noticed, and he leaned in again. 

“Bellamy,” she said, a little louder. He stopped short. She paused before continuing. “We need to get back to camp.”

His nod was slow, but his hand moved away from her and back to the ground. Dax’s body lay a few feet in front of them. The night birds in the trees above them sang death. His lips felt empty. 

“Whenever you’re ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I really like Clarke and Bellamy, and I'm super pumped for season three. This is my first AO3 work, so I hope you like it!


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